


You Can't Teach and Old Cop New Tricks.

by miss_nettles_wife



Series: Whumptober 2019 [6]
Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Gunshot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 18:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20952641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: Whumptober Day 6: Human ShieldMunro wakes up in the hospital after taking a bullet in the chest.





	You Can't Teach and Old Cop New Tricks.

**Author's Note:**

> is anyone else feeling deja vu with the beginnings of these fics? Maybe the next one should be Blake waking up in a bed....Anyway. Here's a fic that's the very definition of 'I wrote this for me but you can read it if you want' Munro Lives workau, canon acceptable levels of wounding, OMC. enjoy!

  
“You’re awake.”   
  
William blinked slowly and took in the feeling of the world around him. He felt like he was drifting just slightly above the world, just above pain, and feeling and anything else he could perceive in his mortal body.   
  
“I was asleep?” He asked, but felt that he must have been to come to his senses like this. He was warm and comfortable and felt little urge to move.   
  
“For the last few days.” The mysterious voice tells him, and he accepts this answer. “But you’re awake now. Tell me: do you have any pain?” He wants to ask how he could ever feel any pain when he can’t even feel the ground but decides not to. He just says -   
  
“No.”   
  
“That’s good.” Says the voice, and William’s brain is starting to catch up with his body. He’s in a hospital, and he knows he’s in a hospital because of the multitude of people in a ward outside his door. The air smells of antiseptic and it’s cold. If he wasn’t under a blanket he would be cold.  
  
“What happened?” He asked, finally. He can get half a look at his bare chest, there is a large bandage wrapped around his chest, which feels like it was hit by a semi-truck. He raises one hand and sees an IV needle poking out. It’s attached to a tube with a clear liquid in it. Maybe morphine? Might explain his high on life sort of feeling.   
  
“You don’t remember?” The doctor, Blake, he finally realizes, asks. “What’s the last thing you can remember?”   
  
“I was going back to the pub.” He says, slowly, his brain ticking very slowly. “You were following me.”   
  
“I was,” Blake says, calming. “Do you remember what happened next?” He combed his memory carefully, but it just cut off into a big blank spot. A gaping chasm in his memory where no matter how hard he tried.   
  
“No.” He says, finally. Blake is looking at him and something is swimming in his eyes. William cannot even begin to bother deciphering it. “Did I get shot?”   
  
“You remember?”   
  
“I’ve been shot before.” He says, thinking of his shoulder. That wound had been not quite this bad. But that hit by a truck feeling, that he knew well enough.   
  
“Yes, I did see that.” Blake says, “Whatever doctor did your shoulder must have gotten his license out of a cereal box.”   
  
“I wouldn’t know.” He answered though he was secretly glad to have his suspicions about the injury confirmed. He was told he’d make a full recovery at the time, but he’d never quite gotten back the motion he used to have with the thing, not to mention that it ached constantly when the humidity got too high.   
  
“But to answer your question, yes. You got shot.” A pause, while he absorbed that information. “Protecting me.” Well, he didn’t expect that.   
“From Norman Baker?” He guesses. Blake doesn’t reply, just makes a sort of murmuring noise in reply. This conversation has left him feeling drowsy, even though he’s only been awake for a few minutes. It’s probably the drugs they’ve given him to make sure he doesn’t feel that he’s been shot in the chest.   
  
“You took getting shot in the chest like a champ,” Blake tells him and picks up his chart from the foot of the bed. “But I won’t lie. There were a lot of times where we thought you weren’t going to pull through.” This time he doesn’t reply, just watched Blake pick up a pen and make a note on the clipboard, “Your son hardly left your bedside the entire time.”   
  
This gave him a reason to pause, because...Well. He’d never been married; let alone have a son. He blinked slowly, trying to figure out if he’d had a son and just forgotten about it if he could forget taking a bullet for Lucien Blake (of all people) then he could probably forget having a son. None come to mind, in fact, he’s pretty sure on the handful of times he’d slept with a woman he’d worn a condom so that didn’t fit.   
  
“Your wife wasn’t listed in your records.”   
  
“I don’t have a wife.” He answers, frowning deeper. “I don’t have a son, either.”   
  
“You don’t have a son?” Blake asks, now his brow is creasing in confusion. “Your file listed Fairly Jones as your next of kin.”   
  
Oh, Fairly. That clicked in his brain. It was good someone called him. His husband was here. The thought comforted him.   
  
“Fairly isn’t my son, and I don’t have a wife.” He tells Blake, forgetting he said this a moment ago.   
  
“What is your relationship with Mr. Jones?” He asks, kindly. It’s almost enough to make him throw up; the kindness. He’s glad no one had to do a death knock to Fairly. Maybe this is his punishment, having to listen to Blake and his generic, home brand kindness. He really was the caring country doctor, right 'till the bitter bitter end.  
  
He’s never ‘come out’ to someone before, never felt the need. He certainly had no desire to put any kind of ammunition into Blake’s hand; even if he was pretty sure that it wouldn’t be used against him. He reverts to his usual answer whenever anyone asked about his personal life.   
“It’s not any of your business.” He says, and Blake nods solemnly.   
  
“I would never use that information against you if I knew it.” He says, “And neither would anyone here.” He’s so earnest that it almost hurts. It hurts to hear that now, as an adult, having come to terms with it. Having accepted his disposition. When he was younger, that might have helped to hear. Now it only hurts.   
  
“You’re awake!”   
  
He turned his head to the side and saw Fairly in the doorway. He was holding an unopened bottle of Coca-Cola in one hand that he set down on the table inside of the door and hurried over. Munro wasn’t someone who liked to classify himself as ‘in love’ but there was something to say for the fact that seeing him now washed over him like a comforting blanket or a warm ocean.   
  
He was sharp jawed, pale and sported a head of dark, straight hair that was slightly grown out. He was also about fifteen years younger than he was and looked younger than that. He was glad to see him, no matter the questions it seemed to have brought on him. There is a bruise on his cheek that makes him frown.   
  
Fairly composed himself quickly, obviously, just a touch embarrassed to be so openly affectionate. He sat down in the seat next to his bed and reached out to take hold of his hand. He didn’t seem bothered by Blake’s presence, and he hated to think that in the time he’d been unconscious, Blake had managed to worm his way into his heart.   
  
“You told me you’d be home in a few weeks, Dad.” He said, unimpressed and whatever willpower he’d accrued in the time he was awake crumbled. He didn’t have the strength to keep up a ruse.   
  
“Blake knows.” He said, finally. Fairly looked at Blake suspiciously, the same way he used to look at him when they first met. “You can trust him with this.”   
  
“You trust him with anything?”   
  
“I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him but I trust him to be a good doctor.” He admitted, on the absolute last string of his willpower. He was tired.  
  
“Thank you for the vote of confidence, William,” Blake said, sounding more than a little pleased with himself.   
  
He grunted something that he hoped he was interpreted as a threat or insult, but he doesn’t, just walks to the door and turns his back. To give them the illusion of privacy, though he assumes he’s listening. He’s too tired to bother analyzing any further.   
  
“You told me you’d be careful.” Fairly said, his brows drawn together into a tight frown.   
  
“I was careful. You're the one who should be careful, why is your face bruised?"   
  
“I got it at work. You got shot in your free time.”   
  
“He wasn’t trying to shoot me.” He defended. "You told me you were going to stop working."   
  
“One of us has to work.” He shook his head and clasped his hand between both of his much paler ones. His wedding ring, worn on the index finger, catches the light. It’s silver, and very handsome. He’d picked it out himself. “I thought you were going to die.”   
  
“Can’t teach an old cop new tricks.” He says, and from the door he hears Blake squash a laugh.   
  
“Stop taking bullets for people.” He advises, “Unless it’s me. You can take one for me.”   
  
“Only one?”   
  
“Only one. After that, I’m on my own.”   
  
“You know I would.” He said, but he’s falling asleep. Fairly doesn’t press him, just readjusts the blanket around his waist and settles in.


End file.
